Kindness in Action I’ll be honest: I used to hide my art from kids because I couldn't stand the thought of grubby, snot-covered hands smudging my pencil marks. When I joined TEAM Dixon, a buddy system for children with special needs, my eighth-grade brain was mostly focused on checking a box for my college applications. I expected it to be a chore; I didn't expect it to rewrite my entire perspective on connection. My first buddy, Christian, had cerebral palsy and was non-verbal. Communication required a level of creativity I’d never used before, but seeing his eyes light up when he felt included taught me that "support" doesn't always need a script. Later, I met Michael, a five-year-old with high-functioning autism. Instead of baseball, we spent our days chasing soapy fake snow and debating the best dinosaurs. There were harder moments—days when the grass felt too rough or the world was too loud for him—but instead of being annoyed, I learned to listen. This act of kindness wasn't just about a single afternoon; it was about showing up. I eventually invited Michael and his mom to my football games and award ceremonies, and they became the family I never knew I needed. That shift from a self-serving volunteer to a dedicated advocate taught me that a resume is nothing compared to the value of a real relationship. I learned that kindness isn't just "being nice"—it's the willingness to adjust your world to make sure someone else feels safe in it. Boldly, Unapologetically Me Growing up in a household split by divorce, I felt like a social chameleon. At my dad’s, I was the girl with dirty fingernails and a sarcastic edge; at my mom’s, I was the girl who loved the salon and all things feminine. When I joined the world of Agriculture and FFA, that pressure to "pick a side" intensified. In the Ag industry, there is a loud, unspoken rule: to be taken seriously, you have to be "one of the boys." I spent years muting my femininity, terrified that if I showed up to a cattle auction with a blowout or a set of nails, I was signaling that I wasn’t a "real" worker. The turning point was realizing that being formidable and being feminine aren't mutually exclusive. I stopped trying to trade my interests for a "tough" persona and instead looked at it as a strength. I realized that the same attention to detail I used in the salon was exactly what made me a focused student and a dedicated caretaker for livestock. I decided to stop leaving half of my identity at the farm gate and started showing up as my full self, pink accessories and all. Today, I am pursuing a career as a large animal veterinarian on my own terms. By embracing my true personality, I found the confidence to step into the spotlight, eventually winning 3rd place in a regional public speaking contest—a feat that would have been impossible if I were still hiding behind a mask. I no longer feel the need to perform a version of masculinity just to earn respect in the barn. Whether I’m decked out in scrubs and covered in mud or wearing my favorite signature style, I am the same person. I’ve learned that the most important thing you can bring to a field—or a surgery—is the person you actually are.

Growing up in a divorced household, I had a new version of myself for every situation. Different houses, different rules, and different parents made figuring out how to be an individual very challenging. I'd fall into appeasing my tough-love father with sarcasm and dirty fingernails, and over-accentuating my feminine habits with my salon-loving mother. The lack of middle ground between masculine and feminine traits was also repeatedly shoved down my throat by the media. I came to the conclusion that there were two choices: the strong female heroine who would rather die than go to the spa, or the ditzy blonde girl who cared more about her appearance than her education. Yet neither one felt like me. I relentlessly tried to fit into one of the options, constantly flipping between the two extremes throughout my childhood, and as a result, losing touch with one parent or the other. Then one day, as I was scrolling on Netflix and trying to take a break from putting up a mask, I came across a preview that had all too much blonde and even more pink. Legally Blonde, starring Reese Witherspoon, follows Elle Woods, a fashion-forward sorority girl, as she chases her ex-boyfriend to Harvard Law School in hopes of winning him back. However, over the course of the movie, she realizes that regardless of the constant gender discrimination against her femininity, she was more than smart enough to rely on herself instead of a man. The initial appeal of Legally Blonde was the aesthetic, but as I watched Elle navigate the hallowed, grey halls of Harvard in a signature shade of pink, I realized the film was more of a mirror than a comedy. Elle didn’t trade her manicures for law books; she used the discipline and attention to detail she learned in the salon to win her first trial. She proved that being feminine and being formidable were not mutually exclusive. For the first time, I saw a path where I didn't have to leave half of my identity at the farm gate. This realization is exactly why I am pursuing a career in veterinary sales. In the agricultural industry, there is an unspoken rule that to be taken seriously, you have to be "one of the boys." You’re expected to mute your femininity to prove you aren't afraid of the grit. For years, I thought my interest in the Ag world meant I had to permanently adopt the "dirty fingernails" persona I used to please my father. I thought that if I showed up to a livestock show or a cattle auction with a blowout or a set of nails, I was signaling that I wasn’t a "real" worker. Elle Woods shattered that binary for me. She showed me that your "girly" traits aren't a distraction from your intellect—they are part of it. Now, when I’m working with livestock, I don’t feel the need to perform a version of masculinity just to earn respect. I’ve realized that I can be the person who understands the complexities of cattle production while still being the person who loves the salon. By integrating these two versions of myself, I’ve finally found the middle ground I lacked as a child. I no longer flip-flop between houses or identities. I am bringing my full self into the Ag industry as a leader: someone who is just as comfortable in a pair of work boots as I am in a signature shade of pink. Like Elle, I’ve learned that the most important thing you can bring to a room—or a field—is the person you actually are.

On my first camping trip I was six months old. I caught my first fish at four and went on my first hunting trip at twelve. I grew up hanging out in the woods with my dad, learning how to shoot a bow and arrow and identify deer tracks. Through this upbringing came a love for everything outdoors, from mountains to the delta sunrise. During one adventure into the woods, as I looked up at the sky peeking through the pine needles up above, I promised myself to never be held up in an office. As I got older, AP homework replaced my time in nature, and I nearly traded my promise for a career in pediatric neurology. Yet when I pictured myself in a white lab coat hidden away under LED lights, something felt off. Even though I loved the idea of caring for children in need, in the back of my mind the outdoors continued to call my name. In my junior year, I decided I needed to have at least one class that didn’t have AP attached to it, just to keep me sane. Therefore, I enrolled in Ag Practices, a class advertised to be about driving tractors and repairing engines. I figured that given my childhood, I’d fit right in. I was wrong. On the first day, my new teacher went around the class and asked us why we were there. Surrounded by kids who cited their years of farm experience and goals of taking over generational ranches, I panicked and blurted out a small white lie that I ride horses. While not a total lie, I had actually stopped lessons years prior when the cost became too high. However, that little lie carried me into the world of agriculture, FFA, and most importantly back into the outdoors. During my time in FFA, my eyes have been opened to the importance of farmers and ranchers. It has also introduced me to the livestock industry, even pushing me out of my comfort zone and into raising cattle for the Dixon Mayfair and competing in public speaking competitions at the state level. Through it all, I started realizing that my place wasn’t in a doctor's office, but on a farm—supporting ranchers and livestock alike. I plan on pursuing a career in Animal Science and becoming a large animal veterinarian. I want to help rural communities like Dixon, provide accessible care to ranchers, and help ensure animal welfare for as many animals as I can. Today, only 10% of the United States' veterinary workforce focuses on large animals. This creates real problems for the people that the United States depends on for one of our most basic needs: food. Farmers and ranchers are lacking critical healthcare for their animals, and the quality of life for millions of livestock is suffering because of it. I won’t pretend that I alone can solve this issue, but if I can help at least one farmer have a better day, and one animal a better life—then I know I will have made a difference. I am ready to step up for our farmers. Yet when I look to my future, as I’m decked out in my scrubs, covered in mud and who knows what else, I know that helping farmers isn't my only motivation. For farmers, rural communities, animals, and the little girl determined to be in the sun forever, I’ll keep my promise.